Agitato
by anjumstar
Summary: Marshall is a hard nut to crack. After weeks of Louis avoiding an explanation (really, a confrontation) for him, Lyla decides to take it into her own hands. Turns out he's not as easy to get along with as his loving baby bro.


**Setting:** A couple of weeks after the events of _August Rush_.

 **Rating:** T for language and sexual references.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor am I affiliated in any way with _August Rush_. This story is merely for entertainment.

 **A/N:** Okay, so this is literally my first time every trying to do 3rd person omniscient instead of 3rd person limited. It's…weird. Please tell me how it reads for you! Also...if at any point you're wondering why you're reading this, read my longer AN at the bottom. It explains the thought process behind this...work.

* * *

 _Agitato_

"I want to talk to him."

Lyla held steadfastly under Louis's disbelieving gaze. He had a stiff stance that said that he wanted to argue, but the way that his mouth kept on dropping open and closed was keeping any convincing words from coming out.

This mostly because he had already tried all of his best tactics. Every excuse he had made, every idea he had presented, every argument possible had been shot down by Lyla calmly responding that she wanted to talk to him. Every damn time. Like she wasn't even listening to him and the, frankly, totally valid reasoning he was putting forth.

Dragging a hand down his face and landing on his jaw, trying to loosen the now massive tension that he felt there, he shook his head in defeat. "I'm not going to say yes. But I guess I can't stop ya neit'er."

Lyla smiled perfectly and suddenly Louis knew how he had lost the debate so easily. Hell, he'd never stood a chance.

"That's all I ask," she said and she all but flounced out of the door. She had seemed to have taken to having an extra bounce in her step since she, Louis, and August had reunited. "Call him to say I'm coming over!" she called out before the door slammed.

Sitting down heavily, Louis and reached for the phone in his pocket. He would text him. Not say anything more than he needed to. Louis figured that if she was going to keep him out of this sure to be a shit-show conversation, then he wasn't going to put himself in any more than necessary.

A few swipes of his fingers and it was done: _Marsh, Lyla's headed over for a talk_

On second thought… _Punch her and your dead_

Louis sighed and tossed his phone, not wanting to see whatever reply came up, if a reply came up. It would be a shit-show alright, and it was all his fault.

He could only hope that it would end without either Lyla or Marshall ripping him apart.

* * *

Lyla had managed to wrangle Marshall's address out of Louis before he'd fully known why she needed it. She hadn't manipulated him—she'd never manipulate Louis—she just knew the best way to get what she wanted out of him. And honestly, she was doing this _for_ him. Close as Louis and Marshall were, from what Lyla had gathered from Louis's descriptions of their pasts, they seemed to have a communication barrier. Verbally, at least.

And in a move totally related to that fact, Louis had spent the last few weeks avoiding talking to Marshall and the band in general. Lyla wasn't completely sure to what degree that avoidance had been, nor exactly why Louis had taken it on as his method of choice. Her best guess was something about them thinking the worst and Louis not wanting to sour the magic of the last few weeks with their—Marshall's—pessimism.

So Lyla had decided to take it upon herself to clear things up with Marshall. Additionally, she wanted to _meet_ him. He was such a fixture in Louis's life, how could she not? Besides, she hadn't really gotten to meet him that first time around. She'd barely even gotten to see him, thanks to the water thrown on her face.

Lyla frowned. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

Nevertheless, she got off at the nearest subway stop in Brooklyn and began walking using directions she had printed out. When she was just outside the building that she was all but positive was his, she was nearly barreled down by someone rushing out the door.

"Whoa, sorry there," the boy apologized through a thick Irish accent that perked Lyla's ears immediately. He grabbed onto her shoulders to steady her as well as himself before lifting a hand to point at her face. "Hey, you're Lyla, right? You look just the same!" he said with a laugh, patting strongly on her shoulder. "I'm Nick. Nice to officially be meetin' ya."

Lyla couldn't say that she remembered Nick's face from twelve years ago. Today, though, he was all smiles, his eyes tracked by happy little crow's feet on the corners and his smile was young and unshakeable.

"Nice to meet you too," Lyla responded, shaking his hand and trying not to look thrown off. "I was actually here to talk to Marshall. Do you know if—"

"Yeah, he's here. We've been roomin' together since Louis shipped us back to New York. Tell ya what; I'll letcha up, then I best be gettin' on my way, alright?"

Before Lyla got a chance to respond, Nick was showing her the way into the building and up the stairs to his apartment.

"Now Marsh's a bit rough around the edges," Nick explained. "So don't let him get to ya. Where's Louie, by the way?"

"Oh, he's at home. I thought I'd give Marshall a try on my own," Lyla said, realizing in hindsight that it sounded kind of stupid.

"Hah, God bless ya, girl. Here we are."

Lyla was standing face to face with a white door in a dimly lit hallway while Nick worked a number of locks, unlatching them one by one.

"Can't ever be too careful in Brooklyn," he explained.

Finally, Nick got the door open, revealing Marshall's voice calling from within. "Whadya forget, Nick? Your head? Your balls?"

Nick had pushed the heavy door all the way open by the time Marshall had walked into the front room, leaving him and Lyla face to face. "I'll leave you t' it," Nick said before speedily making his exit.

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was in the presence of a lady." Marshall grinned, putting his hands up in defense.

"That's alright," Lyla said, just trying to feel him out as she closed the door behind her.

"Better lock it," Marshall said, nearly bumping shoulders with her as he made for the door. "Can't have my baby bro's beour gettin' mugged on me watch."

Lyla faltered, not knowing what her in with this particular conversation would be. "Did Louis tell you I was coming?" was all she managed to muster.

"Aye, he did."

"Oh…Good."

By this point, Marshall had gone into the adjoining kitchen for a soda and was practically chugging it. "Want one?"

"No, I'm alright," Lyla said, still standing in her same place right by the door.

Conversation came so easily to Lyla when she was with Louis. She had never been able to talk to anyone so fluidly before, save for August, now. But with Marshall…God, she didn't even know where to start.

Marshall, for his part, was amused to watch her struggle, though. As he lifted the bottle again to his mouth the corners of his lips were upturned and his eyes were practically dancing with pleasure.

"Didja come just to hang out?" Marshall asked. "Because ya just missed Nick, if you didn't notice, 'n it's not really much of a party wit' just the two of us."

"No, I came to talk," Lyla stated firmly, trying to figure out why Marshall seemed so eager to horse around.

"Ah, so Louis said. 'Bout what?" Marshall pressed, coming back to the sitting room and plopping himself down on a cushy-looking sofa, off-white and stained in a couple places. He leaned back gestured out to the small room, showing his strong arms off in the tight shirt he was wearing. Lyla thought about the stories Louis had told about being on the receiving end of those arms. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you." Lyla sat down across from him, pertly right at the edge of the chair she had picked.

"Well, if you're not gonna start off, then I might 's well." Marshall pushed himself out of the depths of the cushion into a comfortable slouch, elbows resting on his knees, soda still in hand. "Why am I seein' you before I'm seein' Louie?"

That was the easy way of asking why his baby brother hadn't spoken to him in weeks. The way to make it seem like it was a casual issue and not one that had inspired Marshall and the boys to spend more than a few of the last nights at the bar.

This method of conversation didn't do anything to help Lyla, though. Marshall wasn't nearly as easy for Lyla to read as Louis was. She guessed that he was bothered by Louis's behavior but apparently they had spent most of the last ten years not speaking. So was this usual for them or was there actually a flicker of hurt that she was seeing in his eyes?

Whatever flicker she thought she saw, though, that was only underneath all of the bravado. Where Louis was a sweet, sticky piece of fresh caramel just waiting to be unwrapped by the right person, Marshall was one that had been sitting out for days, hard and telling you not to even try to give him a bite. He'd bite you first, anyway.

"I'm here because I get the feeling that your reservations are with me, not Louis," Lyla replied, only answering half of the question.

"And where'dja get t'at idea?"

"From Louis," Lyla stated plainly.

Oh, they were going to do this, where they? With Louis's sparse text, Marshall hadn't known exactly what to expect from Lyla today. But apparently she wanted to have _the talk_. And not the fun one either. No, she was doing what Louis had been too much of a sap to do. He had thought he'd taught his brother to be more than that.

"Well, then I guess Baby Bro in't s' good at passin' on information," Marshall remarked, his voice now less playful, less lilting. "But I guess we already knew that from these last weeks' silence, eh?"

"He didn't say it in so many words," Lyla amended. "But he said that you had choice things to say about our first meeting."

"Hey, you didn't have to pick up the pieces after you left!" Marshall barked, skipping completely from mellow to angry in the blink of an eye, enough to cause Lyla to recoil. She saw his spit fly across the table without him even noticing.

"That's not fair!" Lyla shot back once she regained her bearings, her raised voice sounding foreign to her own ears. Save for the last few months, she hadn't had anything to shout about in years. That thought was enough to make a good yell almost feel like relief, like she was awake again. Still, she didn't want to lose it in front of Marshall, so she reigned herself in, speaking quietly but with no less force. "He wasn't there to pick up my pieces either. But we're not blaming each other for that, so what gives you the right?"

"I'm his older brot'er," Marshall said with scary confidence, like it was a threat, rather than a simple fact. "I know what happened last time and I know what's already startin' to happen this time."

"And what's that?"

"Let me paint a picture for ya," Marshall declared, standing up and clapping his hands together. He began leisurely walking around the room, his legs giving a little kick with each step. It might have looked playful, but the tightness of his jaw—something Lyla saw in Louis when he was stressed too—belied the truth. "My baby brother was always dreamin'. Always livin' this fairytale while the rest of us were left to deal with reality. Boys like us—punks from Ireland immigratin' to America—we don't get the dream. We have too many t'ings goin' against us.

"But Louis never learned that. He began really touchin' that dream when he started playin' his music. He was good. _Really_ good. So we started the band and the boyos and me realized that this was the best it'd ever get. And it was way fuckin' better than expected, so we were happy wit' that. But then Louis met you 'nd it all went t' shit for all of us!"

Marshall had a big smile on for that last exclamation, but there was no joy in his face. Lyla followed him with her eyes as he paced the room but aside from that, her expression was unmoving and unreadable. Marshall continued after a swig from his soda, swaggering just like he was drinking from a good beer.

"Louis was all but dead and 'e packed up and left the band all in one go. Left us all to rot but at least we still had our souls. At least we still could rot! But Louis was an empty robot wit'out even music to save him. And now he's quittin' the band again; that's how it starts. The guitar will go untouched for ten years and by then it'll be too late t' ever make it."

Lyla had known most of that story. She and Louis had spent all of the time they could the last few weeks catching up with each other and had been shocked at the similarity of their stories. But it had been a great comfort that they had gone through the same tragedy together, even when they hadn't been together.

"Why are you so sure he's quitting the band?"

"Because this is how it starts!" Marshall exclaimed repeating the thought that had been echoing dully in his head all month. Hitting his head like a hammer as punishment for ever getting his hopes up in the first place. "Louis meets the girl, Louis decides that the girl is the dream, and Louis forgets that _music_ is the dream."

Music had always been Lyla's dream too. But with Louis she had discovered dreams that she hadn't even known she'd had. And now it felt like she was swimming in dreams. "Why does he only get to have one dream?"

Marshall had made his way close to Lyla, bending over so they were face to face, but not threateningly so. Just enough so that she could smell the coke on his breath and see the complete lack of mirth in his eyes. "Because guys like us don't get to have more than one dream. We were _lucky_ even to get one. But dreamers like Louis never t'ink that that dream's enough so he t'rows it away for a better one. You. But he forgets that guys like us don't end up with girls like you."

In a startling flash, Marshall reminded Lyla of her father. A shiver traced its cold fingers down her spine at the thought. How could two people so different—so starkly _opposite_ —share the exact same thoughts?

Lyla stood up, ready to face Marshall like she'd never gotten the chance to face her father. "Who the hell says so?" she growled, her voice so low it hurt.

Marshall leaned back, rocking on his heels. Then the corners of his lips went down and a single eyebrow rose. Almost as though he was impressed. Then, abruptly, his face flattened and he said, "I'm gonna take a wiz."

Lyla was left gaping as Marshall strode past her and tossed his empty soda in the trashcan, presumably on his way to the bathroom. The anger that she had built up was left fizzling, nowhere for it to go. She had never been good at holding on to anger anyway; the practice she'd ever had was the grudge she was currently holding against her father. Sick or not, he was never going to earn her forgiveness. Dead or not. Didn't matter.

Less than a minute later, Marshall returned, wiping his hands on his dark jeans and then rubbing them together quickly. He grabbed a ring of keys from the kitchen counter and made for the door. "Let's grab a bite. I'm starved."

"Wait," Lyla blurted bewilderedly. "We were talking."

"I know," Marshall replied, a twinkle in his eye that clearly said that he was laughing at her. And that whatever anger that he'd been spouting a minute ago had vanished as quickly as Lyla's had. "You can walk 'n talk at the same time, right?"

Lyla frowned. "It's kind of a personal conversation, Marshall."

"So? If anyone overhears it's free entertainment for some strangers we've never seen before and'll never see again."

Apparently it wasn't up for debate as Marshall opened up the many door latches while stepping into his shoes. She was either coming along or she was going to be alone in his apartment.

"Fine," Lyla resigned, following him.

Marshall finally pulled the door open and made a grandiose sweeping gesture, implying that Lyla should walk through the doorway first. Lyla ignored the point that Marshall was trying to make and pulled her purse higher on her shoulder, passing through the door and not looking back until she no longer knew where she was going.

Passing in front of her, Marshall led the way outside, back into unfamiliar Brooklyn. For living in New York for many years of her life, Lyla had spent an embarrassingly little amount of time in Brooklyn. To the chagrin of Lizzy and Lyla's few other friends at Juilliard, she had rarely ventured more than a few blocks from school. She didn't like going out or exploring. If she refused to do that much in Manhattan, there was next to no chance of her crossing the bridge to do it in Brooklyn.

Marshall, on the other hand, was plenty familiar with Brooklyn, despite only having lived there for the past few weeks. He already had a favorite pub and a club he had looked into playing at. Of course, that had been before Louis had leapt out of their cab and onto a better dream, but whatever.

"Coffee shop sound good?" Marshall asked, though he was definitely headed there whether Lyla liked it or not.

"Sounds great," Lyla answered, allowing her voice to sound somewhat wry. Marshall was irritating her a bit at this point and while she wanted to get on his good side, she didn't want him to think that she was amused by his aloof behavior.

"So where were we?" Marshal asked, clasping his hands behind his head as he walked. "Oh right, Louis quittin' the band."

"He's not quitting the band."

That was enough for Marshall to drop his arms and whip his head at her. She smiled in victory. Surprise was all over his face; finally, she had gotten one on him.

"He said that?"

"Well, no," Lyla admitted, causing Marshall to sag for just a moment before he puffed his chest out and faced forward again. "He hasn't said that. But he has talked about you guys playing together with nothing but fondness and I decided just now that he isn't quitting the band."

"Oh, so you're the missus now, tellin' your man what he is and isn't goin'na do, is that right?"

"No," Lyla said firmly. "I would never do that. But I know that the only reason why Louis would give up the band would be because he's worried about not being able to spend enough time here. But if we're all living in New York City, then it's not a problem."

Marshall shook his head, looking up at the sky. "Jesus, you bloody dreamers're all the same."

"If you get reap the benefits of us dreaming, then why are you complaining?" Lyla quipped.

"I'm not complainin', I'm just observin'. We're here."

Marshall put a hand lightly on Lyla's back, steering them both into a local coffee shop. The familiar smell of toasted beans hit her immediately along with a blast of air conditioning. The smell was where familiarity ended, though. This place seemed like it was one part hipster coffee shop and one part diner. Like the industrial style of the coffee shops cropping up all over Manhattan and Chicago had been sprayed all over a fifties diner until it was completely shiny with stainless steel. A strange place, but it definitely had personality. It just seemed confused about exactly what that personality was.

"Whad'll ya be havin'?" Marshall asked.

"You go ahead," Lyla said absently, waving him off as she read the menu. "It'll take me a minute."

"No, no. My brother'll puck me good if I don't at least pay for your trouble."

Lyla scoffed. "I'm sure he won't."

Marshall shrugged. "We've dealt blows for less."

"Fine, fine. Caffé Americano."

Marshall rolled his eyes. "Americano, sure rub 't in."

Lyla looked at him with disbelief. "Oh, you have got to be kidding."

Marshall smirked. "I am."

Still, Lyla continued to eye him as he went up and placed the order. She really couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

Lyla chose a booth—surprised that a coffee shop even had booths—so that she could feel that their conversation was at least a little sheltered from the world.

"Evidently you t'ink the world is very interested in whatcha have to say," Marshall remarked as he saw right through her plan.

"No," Lyla disagreed. "I just think that I'm not trying to share this with anyone but you."

"I'm flattered."

Lyla sighed, a hiss playing on her chords. "Why are you making this so difficult? What, are you trying to break me down until I admit that I don't really love Louis? Because that's not going to happen, Marshall."

It was minute, but Marshall's right eye twitched for just a moment. If he even realized he did it, he tried to cover it up by folding his forearms onto the table before him. "So you love him." It wasn't a question.

"Of course I do."

It had only been a few days after their reunion that Louis had let the l-word slip out. And all that Lyla had been able to do was smile. She had known that he hadn't planned on saying it, but that it wasn't an accident either. He had meant it and hadn't been afraid of the fact that they hadn't even officially said that they were dating or anything. It was just the truth, plain and simple.

Marshall nodded, not saying anything. He and Lyla heard their orders being called from the back and he got up silently. By the time he returned he was wearing a smile again.

"Caffé _Americano_ ," Marshall announced, placing her frothy drink in front of her, the smell of hot coffee wafting pleasantly to her nose, making her realize that maybe she had been hungry. "And a biscotti."

"Thanks," Lyla said, surprised by the cookie that she hadn't ordered. She couldn't say she was displeased by it, though.

For himself, Marshall had a large mug full to the brim with black coffee and a poppy seed muffin.

"That'll sit well the soda in your stomach," Lyla remarked with a grin as she began to soak the biscotti in her coffee.

"If not'in' else, we Irish have the ability to handle any and all liquids in any combination, all at once," Marshall declared, raising his mug. "Cheers."

"Cheers to that," Lyla echoed, her smile now accompanied half an eye-roll, before taking a bite of her biscotti. Her mouth instantly began watering. Weird interior or not, this place was _good_.

"Alright, movin' right along," Marshall chewed out between a bite of muffin. "So you love my brother. And I know he has the same inexplicable love for you—no offense. Butcha do realize that, added up all together, you've only known each ot'er for less than a month, right?"

"Of course," Lyla said, having heard similar sentiments from Lizzy already. "But…" she looked up at the textured ceiling, looking for the right way to combine her words. "Neither of us have ever been more sure of anything in our lives. Surely you understand that?"

Marshall looked as though he was considering it for a second, sipping on his steaming coffee. Then, shaking his head, "Nope. Can't say I do."

Lyla couldn't help but be crestfallen. "Haven't you ever been in love, Marshall?"

Again with a shake, "No, I haven't."

"Okay, well…" That made it harder to describe for him. Lyla was grasping for words to explain what Louis was to her, hoping that if she could make it sound idealistic enough to Marshall that he would accept it. "You know that Polaroid of us that you took?"

Marshall frowned. He knew that fucking picture all too well. "Sure."

"How we're intertwined like that," Lyla began, setting down her cookie and lacing her fingers together, "with not a single gap between our bodies. Like we're one person, starting and stopping in all the same places. It feels like we're that perfect being when we're together. And when we're apart, we feel lost."

Lost was right, alright. Marshall knew that for sure. Louis's eyes in those few months before he quit the band the first time had been nothing, if not lost. He had looked so much like some of those coked up guys in some of the other bands in the circuit that Marshall had felt the need to ask him once or twice if he was using, and didn't he know that the only substance that was supposed to kill Irishmen was the drink?

"Okay, you can leave the frilly talk for when you're tryin' to write a song," Marshall said detachedly, trying to seem unaffected by the sentiment. "I getchar point."

"Good." Lyla went back to soaking her biscotti, not as daring as Marshall was to drink from the still scalding coffee quite yet. "And it's even greater now than it was before, since we have August now."

"What's that?" Marshall asked, setting his coffee down on its platter.

Lyla furrowed her brows. "August. Our son."

Marshall almost choked. "What?"

Lyla suddenly felt cold, and not just because she was wearing a thin dress in an air conditioned, metallic coffee shop. "Louis didn't tell you about August?"

Gesturing to his face, which was lined with utter indignation, Marshall said, "Does this look like the face o' someone in the know?"

Fury was gripping at him rapidly. And God dammit, he didn't have anything to punch! No beer can to crumple in his fist until the edges made his palm bleed, no bottle to shatter and stomp on till the pieces looked like sugar candy.

A child. Louis had been with Lyla and a fucking kid for weeks. And not a damn word.

Lyla, for her part, was looking bewildered. "I…I can't believe that he didn't tell you."

Marshall put a fist on the table, taking great care not to slam it down and rattle all the dishes. "Look, love. I haven't heard a single word from 'im 'cept for a text out of the blue today sayin' you were droppin' by." Marshall's face was cold as Lyla felt, like a layer of frost had been blow over it. "Guess my brot'er doesn't letcha know everyt'in', now, does he? Bet 'e doesn't seem like such a prince now."

"Prince or not, look, it doesn't make a difference," Lyla retaliated. Her words came out strong, but in her mind her thoughts were tangled and questioning. She was certain that Louis had a good reason for holding off on telling Marshall. But any reason that she could come up with fell flat in comparison to the hurt that Marshall was trying so hard to hide on his face. "I'm sure that he just didn't tell you because he didn't know how to tell you. I mean, it is all a crazy story."

"Oh yeah? And what is that story, love?" Marshall asked, sitting back and crossing his arms, coffee and muffin forgotten at least for the moment.

"You mean about August?"

Lyla had come here to give Marshall answers. Maybe that hadn't been her _exact_ intended goal when she came to Brooklyn, but now it was clear that it was the best she could do. But all of a sudden, it felt achingly personal to talk about her baby with who was essentially a stranger, sitting across from her and clenching is own arm as though he wanted to rip it off.

"Yes. I want t' learn why _August_ is just coming into my brot'er's picture now. Where has 'e been up until now, eh?"

Lyla could feel Marshall jack-hammering his leg beneath the table, and the tight pursing of his lips made him look like he was doing everything to contain himself. So Lyla did the same, taking his accusatory words and swallowing them, working them harshly town her throat as she took a calming breath in through her nose. This wasn't personal.

Oh, but it felt pretty damn personal. Just the way that he had said her son's name was enough to rile up that maternal instinct that had not had nearly enough use in the past decade.

"That's not how it happened," she grit out, her voice dangerously quiet.

"Well, then tell me," Marshall said. "I'm beggin' ya."

Lyla pushed her hands against the vinyl cushion, right next to her hips, as though about to get up. Really, though, she just needed to _push_. "Aside from the obvious fact that I had no real way to contact your brother," she began cooly. "I also didn't know about August until a few months ago."

Marshall looked confused, but he hid it behind swaggering arrogance. "Wait, you're tellin' me there's a way for the mum not to know about a babe?"

She wanted to wound him. She wanted to cut him with her words just so that he would have an idea of the pain the she had gone through in what he thought to be some _story_.

"There is when your father signs him away to adoption while you're a medically induced coma, before telling you that you stillbirthed your son."

That was enough to knock the wind out of Marshall's sails. Suddenly, he felt like a huge dick. The biggest. "Oh," was all he could manage after a minute. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well," Lyla fiddled with the cookie crumbs on her plate, "everything's okay now. Better, actually. Better than I could have _dreamed_ after that.

Marshall coughed into a fist, looking a little looser than he had moments before. "One last question, love, and I don't mean any disrespect by 't or anyt'in', but I have t' ask anyway as the big brot'er."

"What's that?" Lyla downed a healthy mouthful of her coffee, now comfortably warm. The crests and troughs of her emotions had left her exhausted. Marshall seemed a little worse for wear as well. His voice had become throatier and lower in his register like he had been singing for hours. That left Lyla wondering if this had been the longest conversation that Marshall had ever had, at least before it all fell away to something tactile.

It was alright, though, because it seemed as though Lyla and Marshall had just barreled head-on into the brick wall that had been blocking them. So maybe conversation between them would be easy now.

"How d' ya reckon I can know for sure that this is my brot'her's son?"

Or maybe not. Warning or not, it _was_ a rude question. And perhaps Lyla should have been incensed, but maybe it was only right that she be asked this question, since Louis had never asked. Lyla was positive that the idea had never even occurred to him. She had always imagined him asking it, though. It was a conversation that she'd had with herself a hundred times when she was pregnant and imagining finding Louis out of the blue and telling him the truth. Usually such fantasies were good, but after particularly needling conversations with her father they always seemed to take on more of his voice than what she truly remembered Louis to be.

But Lyla had one fact that she held close to her that negated any of these accusations. So close that she hadn't even mentioned it to Louis yet. She'd rarely talked of it with Lizzy; only when Lizzy forced the conversation to the surface. It always left Lyla embarrassed and looking at the floor until Lizzy would finally let it go.

Already, Lyla could feel the embarrassment rising on her cheeks all over again. Hiding her face, she continued looking at her cookie, fully prepared to have this conversation with it rather than Marshall, sure that that was the only way she'd be able to make it through without her whole face bursting into flame. "I haven't slept with anyone else since," she whispered. "And before, I was a virgin."

By the grace of God, Marshall skipped over the first, more embarrassing revelation and instead commented on the second with a smirk. "So was he."

"Oh," Lyla said emptily, brushing aside the wall of curls that had fallen in front of her face. "I never knew for sure."

That was enough to make Marshall laugh heartily, ignoring how other patrons looked over at him as he slapped the fleshy part of his fist against the wall, just for the hell of it. "Well, that proves it then," Marshall finally managed to spit out.

"What do you mean?"

"Look, t'ankfully, I don't know much about my baby bro's behavior in the bedroom, but I'm damned sure that he'd make it painfully clear that he was a virgin to anyone who knew a lick more than him. And he knew jack-shit, which should be obvious given your guys's complete incompetence about the condom business."

"Oh. Well, there you go, then," Lyla said, still too embarrassed to face him.

"Lyla," Marshall started, his voice still colored with a smile, but he was no longer laughing at her. "I'm sorry about bein' such a jackass before. You're not bad for Louie. To tell the truth, the best songs we ever played were the ones he wrote about ya."

Lyla bowed her head slightly. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

"I'm not done," Marshall said, his face just looking open and honest for once. "I said some shitty t'ings today. You're a girl, so I couldn't smack ya, so I guess I tried to smack ya wit' me words and me quick wit. I guess I'm just not good at handlin' my baby bro abandonin' me for a lass. And keepin' such a huge secret."

"I understand," Lyla said, surprised to realize that she really did. "I think that I have something that might make you feel better."

Lyla reached into her purse and took out a photograph, touching it tenderly before handing it with care to Marshall.

"This is him."

Marshall couldn't control the grin that split his face. God, he was turning into a softy with his old age. "He looks like Louie."

"It's the eyes," Lyla commented softly.

"Yeah." He pulled the picture back from himself, giving a little laugh. "Christ, I have a nevew!

With an ounce of reluctance, Marshall handed the photo back to Lyla, who took care to place it back in a pocket of her bag. "You know, he should be coming home from school in less than an hour. Why don't you come meet him?"

"Really? Not goin'na try to keep 'im away from crazy Uncle Marshall?"

Lyla laughed. "I think we've had enough of that already."

* * *

After almost missing the subway out of Brooklyn and Lyla having to convince Marshall not to jump the turnstile, they finally made it to August's school. His elementary school, not Juilliard.

Luckily, the kids hadn't been released yet. It didn't take long for both Lyla and Marshall to spot Louis standing around, read to pick August up himself. Lyla couldn't help but run up to him.

"Louis!"

She flew into his arms and Louis swept her up immediately, greeting her with a little more than a peck on the lips. "You're alive," he commented, checking her body for bruises or cuts. "Marshall didn't give ya too much of a hard time?"

"I took good care a your beour, man," Marshall said, walking up behind Lyla, who had pulled apart from Louis.

"Marshall?" Louis marveled, unable to hide his surprise. "What're ya doin' 'ere?"

"Your lady here wanted to introduce me to the kid you've been hiding."

Louis at least had the sense to look embarrassed. "Yeah, about that. I wanted to tell ya but I guess I didn't want ya shittin' all over it."

"I wouldn't of done that!" Marshall cried out.

Both Louis and Lyla through him a look that told Marshall that he couldn't have told a worse lie.

"Well, maybe I woulda, but just to get it outta my system! I'm on board now, right?"

By that point kids were flooding from the building, but none running faster than one August Rush, who dove for his parents as soon as he spotted them.

"Oof," Louis grunted as August all but tackled him.

Marshall laughed. This boy had some Connelly blood in him for sure.

"August, we have someone we'd like you to meet," Lyla said, as she tried to coax August out of Louis's grasp. August took his face out of Louis's tee shirt and turned to Lyla before following the finger she had pointing at Marshall. "This is your dad's brother."

"That means he's my uncle!" August declared, grinning at the idea of more family.

"He sure is, son," Louis said, tousling August's hair. "Meet Uncle Marshall."

August looked up to meet Marshall's eyes looking down at him. "Hi!"

"Marshall, meet August Rush," Lyla said, gesturing between them daintily.

" _August Rush_? Interestin' name, kid."

"It's just gonna be his stage name," Louis clarified. "We're workin' on havin it changed to Connelly, but apparently the name changin' process is tougher than it seems."

"Another Connelly boy," Marshall mused. "You reckon he'll be in the band?"

The other three laughed. "Oh, Marsh, you don't know 'im at all yet," Louis said.

"Well whose fault is that?"

Before the two of them started exchanging blows in front of an elementary school, Lyla put a hand on her son's shoulder and began steering them away. "Let's go home before we dive into that one, okay?"

August walked hand in hand between Lyla and Louis and Marshall walked leisurely beside Louis, thumbs hooked in his jeans. "Nice to meet your babe today, Louie," Marshall commented.

"It was nice to meet you too, Marshall." Lyla smiled.

"I meant the kid."

"He's not 'the kid,' Marshall," Louis corrected. "He's my son."

August laughed, the now ever-present smile plastered to his face. "He loves calling me that!"

"That I do, son!"

Marshall smiled, looking away from the sickeningly sweet scene. He shook his head a little bit and scratched the side of his nose. How had he thought for even a second that this wasn't right? Because you just needed to look at the three of them for a second to know that they were all right where they were supposed to be.

But, best of all, Louis wasn't quitting the band. So it was all good.

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay...This one got away from me. There's no reason for it to be as long as it is. And it's not even a story, it's just a long-ass conversation. Ultimately I shouldn't have published this and just seen it as practice for these characters but...I don't see the harm in publishing it. There's plenty of crap work on this site-this is hardly the worst thing out there. I hope that someone might find it interesting and entertaining. But...I don't have _high_ hopes for that. I think there are nuggets here that ended up being okay, but Marshall ended up being a little different than I had wanted him to be and with this much conversation it's just impossible to tell if Lyla is even in character, based on how little she speaks in the movie. I did the best I could with a basic idea and a lot of verbal diarrhea came out of it. Okay. End of speech.


End file.
